


Nightmare

by aingea9867



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: ((i have an idea for the narrator but idk about it yet)), Do not kill me for putting this in the deh tag, Narrator is mysterious, Other, This was heavily inspired by the princess bride, and connor is heavily inspired by holden caulfield, but this is the intro, i know it's different and it LOOKS like there's no characters in it, mostly the style of narration in the princess bride, narrator is for sure not death in any way shape or form i have decided that much, no joke, so let me live my life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 14:58:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aingea9867/pseuds/aingea9867
Summary: This was supposed to be the introduction for a small drabble about Evan having a nightmare, but it got long and really philisophical and practical so I'm still gonna post it, if you like this deviation from my normal writing and you want me to continue, please tell me.





	1. An Eloquent Introduction

Do you know what it’s like to have a nightmare? If not, you are clearly not human in any way. Every human has nightmares, unless of course they are of the subsection that has a certain lack of empathy or feeling. Even as children we encounter bad scenarios in our dreams, flipping them into these so-called “nightmares”. The word itself originates from Old English, “night” being the obvious first part, and “mare” stemming from the Old English “maere”, meaning incubus. An incubus was a female creature who would slither into homes of the unsuspecting and suffocate them in their sleep. It is very unfortunate to the people plagued with this “nightmares” constantly, as their throats must be incredibly sore.

Of course the “maere” does not exist, as many things do not. Even though we can see it and feel it, there is no determination that it is real, and not a simulation through which we can feel and touch and see. There are things as obvious as faeries and unicorns, and the dreaded maere, that are simply folklore, created by the human mind and spread as a tale. These are the most obviously nonexistent. But there are things that younger generations of humans accept as truth and commonplace, yet were once too, an illusion. Things such as time and religion, things crafted by the human mind to placate us, whether in the realm of the afterlife or the seasons passing by. Even the concept of “passing by” is merely an illusion when stripped down to its skeleton.

Everything seems to fall apart at this point, complete with words. Words and letters are simply symbols strung together to express how a human, or some other self-aware creature, feels. Of course, there have been psychological studies done on many of these things and how they affect humans, including the way tone and pitch can change the meaning of a word or sound, usually implying the opposite of what the word means.

Life in its skeletal state is merely an illusion, a bubble that humans crafted to keep themselves safe. They have become skillful at using these symbols and words of theirs to craft elaborate pieces of literature, something I am doing in this very moment. But my words mean nothing to you, as I have just ripped everything you know about words to tiny shreds. They simply don’t exist, and neither does time, human intellect, religion, reason, and you.

You are the living reason why no one exists.

Look at you. Your science is so complicated, the organs and bones and all of the systems in the body working together in perfect harmony, yet these are made up of atoms, and everything is now chemical. You see how easy it is to switch from a biological perspective to a chemical perspective? It is just as easy to switch to a perspective that is more, perhaps, psychological. When put simply, you have a body, and in that body is your brain. Your brain dictates everything that goes on not only in your body, but in your perception and the way you see the world. Your brain will send impulses to your heart that tell it to pump blood, which carries the oxygen from your lungs to your body parts. But your brain also tells you what you see, what you do, and what you think. Your brain makes you think you have a choice in this world.

I regret to inform you that you do not. Everything around you is falling apart, slowly, slowly, slowly. As you look around the pieces fit together more clearly, yet everything becomes a sudden haze. Where are you and why are you here? It doesn’t matter, because your brain is the wall between you and true life.

True life doesn’t exist.

 


	2. In Which the Narrator Explains Themself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The narrator apologizes profusely for any tension caused by the first chapter. It was simply too... entertaining to leave it there. That piece was not written by the narrator. It was written by someone else that you may already know.

This excerpt was written by a sixteen year old child. If you do not believe me, look at the name inscribed in scrawling letters at the top of the page. A boy by the name of Connor Murphy wrote this in his sophomore year, and received an F.

Yet another example of the way life can fall apart is with grades. Grades are merely numbers and symbols and letters ranking your intelligence level. The boy they call Murphy so eloquently outlined what I have been explaining to the entire human race for years, yet he received the lowest letter grade a teacher can dole out. He was not less than average, he was not even average, which would have earned a C. It is funny how that works, an average grade is something children these days would cry over. I have seen them do it, and they still do not understand that their brain is not failing them, it is the illusion that the elders keep. Older humans like to keep the peace, they like to hold up the world on their shoulders and keep things exactly the way they are.

Connor Murphy could see the difference in the world, and he could see it well. The illusion cracked for him at a very young age, the age of 9. But, of course, he could not see it at the time. The boy they called Connor was someone who saw the faults in the world, the small lines that reached towards the sky and cracked it into segments that other humans would scramble to keep. He knew everything from a very young age, and his future became dark because of it. Unfortunately, his story ended almost exactly after a year after he wrote that piece.

Excuse me, I need to correct myself. His story did not end forever, it lived on for a set amount of time. I set the clock for him, tick tock, until the time ran out and everything fell to pieces. He begged me for more time, but I had to refuse. It is written in the rules, you cannot allot more time to someone who has already died. Fortunately, I was able to find a small loophole in the human they called Liar. Of course, this name did not attach itself to the boy until he had finished with his own story.

Now, the boy the called Connor was a simple case to deal with. He already knew of the world and how it worked in the eyes of someone who could see from the outside, all he had to do was wait. There were times when he knew that his brain was different and that he was special. There were other times that he could acknowledge his faults and grasp at them with long, slender fingers that begged for more. He knew he had issues. His brain was failing him and short-circuiting. This phrase, short-circuiting, is often thought of as an electrical term, though used to describe something totally different at times. A circuit is something I like to think of as a circle of energy, a flow of electrons moving around infinitely. When it falls short, it is a short-circuit, in which there is nowhere else for the energy to go but up to the sky, deep inside the clouds.

It seems you humans want to know more about me. I am not the one that is important here. You have been drawn here by the energy of this writing, these words, these letters, the things that Connor said simply don’t exist, and you have sat down to listen. This is not my story, and I would caution you to exit unless you want to see through the eyes of a normal teenage boy. I will let Connor take over the reigns from here on out, but I will interject occasionally to check on the progress of the story.

Of course, he only has so much time left with you.


	3. David Blaine Just Wants to Die: a Paper Receiving a Grade of 0%

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time Narrator steps away, leaving most of the story to Connor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok wowie folks, this chapter is HEAVILY inspired by Holden Caulfield, mostly because Connor would TOTALLY write like this when he's just thinking. He also technically wrote the first chapter, but that's when he's... trying. Here he's basically just talking.

Good morning, or whatever the fuck.

There’s a lot you can learn from me. Mostly to not kill yourself, maybe? Because this fucking sucks, a lot! Especially when you apparently had a lot of “talent” or whatever. I was never told that in my time on Earth, especially when my sister was the smarter or prettier one. I would come home with F’s a lot, especially in creative writing. I got a 0 on this one paper I called “David Blaine Just Wants to Die”. It’s true, I mean, just look at him. He’s fucking crazy.

I try my best to emulate other writers in my writing. Mostly the straightforward ones, I never really delve into metaphors. I’m real good at metaphors, only when I start, I can never stop, and it’s endless. So I stick to the basics.

The only time I was told I was a good writer was here. Narrator, as I call them, said I was really good and that I understood. Now, I don’t give a rat’s ass whether I “understand” or not. No one listened to me, so it never mattered what I thought anyways. But I’m not here for me, y’know. I’m here for Liar.

Of course, he has a name. I only really ever saw it once, on this letter of his. When I saw what he was doing I liked to call him Liar, because, well, it’s what he is. It was kinda awful what he did, but I can see myself in this kid. This poor kid doesn’t know how much this place matures you, even in just a sobering second when you realize you want to go back.

Now, I died when I was 17. Pretty young to die, a lot of people would say. Thing is, I can agree with them. I only ever lived my life in a school, and I never even stayed for college. I realize as I continue to watch Liar, I can see why staying can either ruin your life or make it better. I have moments where I want to be him, even. But he’s only that way because of me, so I stay away from the thought.

He works at Pottery Barn, y’know? He works at Pottery fucking Barn, as if he’s ever seen furniture that expensive. Shit, that sounds mean. But who cares, he can’t hear me. It’s only you.

I draw too, y’know? Just a little bit, nothing too cool. I mostly draw these really weird spindly creatures. They kinda look like if you were to take a piece of string and bend it and tighten it and knot it until you had a little figure. I didn’t ever see these things unless I drew them, they just came to my head. Of course, once I died, I could see them. They’re fine, just not as nice as I had drawn them. But this is not about me, this is about Liar. I get off track so easily, it’s so shitty.

Now, before I died, Liar was an image in my mind from elementary school. He was totally fucked, in a way I had never really known. Sure, I was depressed, and I had some mental issues, but never in this way. He was just this huge fucking wreck all the time, even way back then. Y’know, his disorder spells out the acronym SAD. I wonder if that’s a coincidence. It probably is, he was never really sad, just… anxious. Now let me tell you, it was easy to pick up on Ev- Liar’s little twitches and fidgets. In elementary school he would do this thing where he played with everything around him. He would fidget with his shirt, his pants, the edge of his desk, anything he could get his hands on. There was this one day in second grade where he came in wearing a skirt, and he would fidget with that. It was kind of badass, the way he could just walk in wearing a skirt like that. Or, at least my second grade mind thought that for five seconds before resorting to making fun of it. I mostly did that because I was jealous, my mom would never let me do that.

See, when I made fun of his skirt, or anything else he did, he would cry. Obviously, as children would. But he would also practically stop breathing. He’d inhale in this weird way, like he was a fish out of water, trying to grab at the air. It wouldn’t stop until he was taken out of the room, and even then I don’t know if it would stop. It was kind of terrifying to watch, but it was interesting. So little 9 year old asshole me decided to keep doing it.

In third grade I was deemed a bully. Of course I was “the bully”, no one else could be. I was the kid with the anger issues and the tendency to throw things at people. They stopped letting me use the scissors. They thought I would kill someone, isn’t that fucked? I just longed to be able to touch the scissors. I wanted to use them for a project to cut out this pretty butterfly I made. But, of course, I was the bully who wasn’t allowed to touch the scissors. They wouldn't even let me touch the toys, so I had to bring my own in. I never brought any, because they were all really nice and I didn’t want to take them out of my room. They belonged there.

During playtime I just watched everyone from my desk as they ran around and talked to the other kids. It was sad, probably, to see that one kid who wasn’t allowed to play with you just… watching you from his desk. So no one looked back. I would watch as Liar played with this truck. It was a grubby truck, the red was really gross and the back had crumbs in it, but he still played with it. He would rock it back and forth and wave around his arms, all excited like he used to get. He’d make little beep noises under his breath and rock it the same way, back and forth. He never got far with his truck, just forward and back.

Sometimes his beeping would get louder. It was kind of sudden, he’d be really quiet and then you’d hear a giant, loud “BEEP” before he realized he had yelled, and would go back quietly to his small beeps. It was cute, the way he got so excited and happy with that truck.

Now, the rest of elementary school and middle school were a blur. I did dumb things, nothing too dumb, mind you, and then once freshman year rolled around things got a bit more serious.

There was this kid I was paired with, his name was George. He liked to be called G, and I rolled with it. I mean, G is a damn cool nickname, who wouldn’t want to hang out with a guy called G? I realized soon that it wasn’t the best idea to start talking to my lab partner G. He screwed me over big time.

Narrator says I have run out of time and space for this chapter of my life. I guess G will have to wait until next time. I’m real sorry I need to leave you like this, it’s just that Narrator doesn’t want me to waste myself away. Telling this story really takes everything out of me, even though I’m dead and all. I just kind of… unravel onto the page, y’know? Anyways, until next time I can write, stay fucked up. Or don’t. Isn’t that the moral of the story?

* * *

 

There is no moral to this story. This is a story of broken morals. No one ends up here because of a perfect life, because they decided to end it. They are forever trapped in a paradigm, sadly. And sadly, Connor has to go for now. He is still assigned to the boy they call Liar. He was told to watch closely. And so he shall.


	4. In Which the Murphy Boy Speaks of George Wallace McIntire, Known as 'G'

In the coming hours, it is predicted that the boy they call Murphy will be in contact with Liar. Any minute now, you will get another side to the story. For now, sit down and relax, and listen to the story of George, the lab partner he called G.

* * *

Okay fuckers.

That’s rude, damn it.

Anyways, let’s continue on about G. He wasn’t too cool. When I say he wasn’t “too cool”, he was one of the stoners who kinda went his own way. I didn’t even know who he was, he went to a different elementary school. Sometimes I wish that I had some sort of computer in my head that told me to, like, not talk to him. I did read this one story that had that in it, it was really cool. Just a pill you swallow and then the computer tells you how to act. But of course it ends up backfiring. So maybe I don't wish I had that.

G and I became friends quickly, as we had to do a lot of labs together and stuff. Every once in awhile he would do these weird things like, he would reach for the same glass I did, he would tie my apron for me, but he would get just a little too close. I really didn't like it, he would linger for just a second longer than was comfortable.

I would prefer for you to sit down and listen, as no one does that for me in my real life. Or, when I was alive, no one listened. People must have shut me out. Or maybe it was me. Maybe I was the reason that no one listened. See, no one cares about the people like me. The people that turn 17 and then stay sitting on their asses, waiting for everyone around them to change, to catch up.

You see, G was the only person that ever listened to me. And in order to get him to listen to me, I knew what I had to do. The only way was to get high. It was simple to get him high, he was high almost every day. It was never a challenge to have him listen to me, he always wanted to hear it. If I was doing fine, if I was doing great, if I was doing bad, it didn’t matter.

Anyways, there were a couple of times that he noticed I was kind of a loner, and then one day he asked me to come to his house. I was lonely and dumb, so I accepted. That Friday night we sat alone in his basement and I watched as he smoked a bowl. Then he offered me the pipe and I took it.

I was desperate, I wanted it. When people never listen to you and you finally find someone who wants to hear everything you say, you never want to lose them. G was special to me, I never wanted him to leave. It was sad when he did.

See, that basement was my personal hell, yet my heaven. I could never tell if that drop in my stomach when I descended those stairs was fear or joy. The stair were wooden and creaky, as most basement stairs are. And really, who smokes weed in a finished basement? Not me, at least.

Every time I was invited over he had to hide me. It was almost like a story, where the protagonist has to hide his lover. Only he was the antagonist, and we definitely weren't lovers.

He was almost ashamed of me. He kept his head hung low half the time I was with him. He ended up taking everything from me. He took my innocence, my viewpoint, my virginity, and eventually my life. I may have been the person to take my own life, but he ruined what was left of it.

Going into sophomore year I was labeled a stoner. I got all my weed through G’s guys and I was having a grand old time. But every once in awhile when we would get high, G would try to touch me. He'd be really weird about it too, he would caress my thigh and lean in and I would just take it. I was stoned as shit, and as a horny teenager I really didn't care. But deep down I really did care, and I didn't realize that until after. We never got far, and we never did. I always managed to stop him before anything happened.

G still wanted to meet in his basement after that. So I went down those gross, creaky stairs and looked at him. He wasn't already smoking, which he usually was. I was late, and I had expected him to at least start packing the pipe or something. But he was just standing there, looking at me with this gross stare. He was mad, I could tell. And so he started walking towards me. All I could think of was to keep my ground, I couldn't look like a pussy to my weed dealer. But I didn't move in time. He hit me. He didn't punch me, but he slapped me.

I would have preferred he punch me. Mostly because a punch is like the thunder of a bass drum, and it feels like it's finally over in an instant, but a slap is like a snare, sharp and biting and seems to last forever. He fucking backhanded me, and THEN he decided to punch me while I was off guard, right in the fucking stomach. I fell to my knees, because that shit hurts, and he kicked some dirt from the basement floor at me.

I laid in his basement for what seemed like an hour. It was probably about 10 minutes, but it was like spending an eternity in hell. Laying on that cold dirty floor while hunched over, smelling the weed. It’s everywhere, the smell. It sickened me, so I eventually left. I should have left right after he hit me, but I was scared. He was still in the room.

I just ran as fast as I could once I composed myself. Only when I was halfway down the street did I realize I had forgotten my coat. I had about $100 stashed in the pocket to buy a few grams from one of his guys, and I couldn’t leave it. The thing is I didn’t give a shit about the money, I had stolen it from my dad’s wallet while he was in the shower. It was the jacket I gave a shit about.

My jacket was beautiful to me. Of course everyone else tried to persuade me to throw it away, but I never did. There were no food stains, the only discoloration was from the sun. I had seen it in the window of a thrift shop and I begged my mom to let me get it. I was really tiny, it was a day in 7th grade I got it. It didn’t ever fit right, it was always huge on me. But at least when I shot up in 9th grade it fit a little bit better. The arms were perfect, but the body was always too baggy. But that was the way I liked it. I wish I had it with me. Sometimes I would lay it out before washing it and I’d trace my fingers over the patches and the holes from pins I put in it. Right after I left G’s house I immediately ripped out all of the patches and pins and left it bare. That was how I kept my jacket the rest of my life. That would be impressive if I hadn’t, y’know, killed myself.

I continued talking to G after that, only because I needed more weed. A lot more weed. The only time I would write was when I was high, it became a habit to take a hit and write, take another hit and keep typing, and when I would wake up the next morning I had 20 pages of my dumb high writing. The only time I ever wrote sober was for English assignments. When I was sober I was serious, I was suicidal, I was a boring emo kid who had to spill everything. I kept them all short, because I never wanted to give them anything I wrote while I was high. It wasn’t good, it was a stream of my stoned self’s thoughts. Granted, there was one time I got something really cool out of a session.

Now, I want you to promise me one thing. Actually, promise me a few things. Do not try to find an agenda in this story. My suicide was not revenge, nor should it be taken as such. Do not misconstrue this story. I was not perfect, I was not even kind. I was horrible to my family and the people around me. And finally, no one should see this as a reason to kill themselves.

* * *

 

I predicted most correctly; the boy Liar has been contacted. You have a hell awaiting you, do you accept it?


End file.
